I didn't sleep that night. I lay in my bed, tangled in sheets that felt too hot and too rough against my sensitized skin, and thought about him. About his hands, his voice, his eyes. About the way he'd looked at me like he could see straight through to every secret want I'd never admitted to myself.
My hand had drifted between my thighs for the second time that night sometime around two in the morning, seeking relief from the ache that had been building since the lounge. Instead of stopping this time I'd touched myself thinking about him—his fingers instead of mine, his mouth, his body covering mine. I'd come with his name on my lips, but it hadn't been enough. The orgasm had been sharp and quick and ultimately unsatisfying, leaving me more frustrated than before.
Because it wasn't him.
